Posted 5/28/2014
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This is a work of fiction, based on the book series by J.K. Rowling. Neither do I claim ownership nor do I intend to.
Chapter Thirty-Nine - Dreams and Stories
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Wednesday began with a downpour, but Harry didn't really notice it. Following Hermione's advice, he had put the matter of his attack on Death Eaters aside for a while. He couldn't keep from thinking about it occasionally, but instead of hunting for new spells or trying to come up with ever more creative ways to scare his enemies, he returned to training his magical skills in the training room on the second floor. His wandless magic improved continually much to his satisfaction, and he did pick up some improvements for his spellwork.
It was nice, he mused as he towelled himself off after a shower, to actually work towards the confrontation he knew would be coming. Every year he had been flung into the thick of it, facing dangers he had had little to no knowledge about. For once, he would prepare beforehand. Yet there was also a certain unrest connected to it. Perhaps it had become a conditioned reaction in the past, but training carried the feeling of danger with it, and he constantly expected Death Eaters to barge in through the front door. Their protections had worked so far, and there was little reason to assume they would fail anytime in the future, but he still couldn't shake off the unrest.
Harry also knew how much he longed to do something other than curse targets that didn't fight back, read up on spells he had little inclination to use anytime soon, speak with Hermione about magical theories that he wouldn't have understood weeks or even days ago or sneak out to buy food in disguise. The thrill of it had worn off in the meantime, and as fun as it had been to leave for a few minutes, once it had gone from adventure to routine, it had also become a chore Hermione and he had to share.
Checking himself in the mirror, Harry had to keep from chuckling. Little was left of the small boy he had once been, but the Seeker was still present. Stringy as he was, the scars he had collected over the years were easily noticeable. For one, the Hungarian Horntail had left a reminder to not forget to watch the whole beast when facing a dragon. The Basilisk's tooth had pierced his arm, and Harry still had the scar to show for it. Wormtail's knife had been something else. Luckily, over time it had faded until it was only a hint and a memory. Then there was the one on his hand. I must not tell lies, it proclaimed. It had been meant as a punishment, but it had become something else. The old Harry had seen it as a sign of resistance against the Ministry's spy Umbridge. But now, he didn't see the message anymore whenever he looked at it; all he saw was the determination, the opposition the Ministry had mounted against him, all because he had said something they didn't like. That scar had become a reminder of the mentality of Wizarding Britain – to believe whatever they were told without any question, and how easy they followed.
He had also gotten used to the new, old body. Sometime over the months he had lost his expectation to see the snakelike face of Voldemort, had gotten used to have full hair. New memories had formed his self-image. He was happy he didn't have Voldemort's face, instead of confused by what he saw in the mirror. Having a somewhat normal face had its advantages. Wherever the self-proclaimed Dark Lord showed up, people fled from him. Then again, he had chosen to go through with the rituals and the self-mutilation. Everything had a price. That was the truth of it. Voldemort had done it, had paid the price; but Harry was quite happy to leave that deal well alone.
Yet, thinking about it, Harry wondered about the price for his deeds in the end. Would it be deemed necessary or even good? Or would it be seen as murder and nothing more? Who would determine his worth and righteousness? He thought it necessary, not nice or preferable. He didn't want to do it. Would that factor in somewhere? His friends knew him, his enemies would learn to keep quiet, and with the respect the Blacks and the Potters commanded as well as his fame as the hero of the wizarding world once he'd have defeated Voldemort, Harry was fairly certain he would be left alone and in peace most of the days. With how often and quickly magical Britain changed its mind, he would be hailed a hero one day and a villain the next anyway, so why worry about them?
But what about the afterlife? Would he be judged for it? Would he be condemned as a murderer or welcomed as a brave man who did what needed to be done?
He would have to deal with it when he crossed that bridge.
He dressed quickly, wanting to talk to Hermione. He itched to know whether she had had an idea for his planned strike against the Death Eaters, and he couldn't find any reason to not look into it once more. He knew they were close to the solution, but so far, neither had had the breakthrough. Maybe he had set his goal too high for the start, he mused, leaving his room.
He found Hermione in the kitchen, bent over a thick book she had dug out from somewhere.
"Interesting read?" he asked her when she looked up.
"For you it likely wouldn't be," she countered diplomatically. "I wish I had something more useful at hand, but..."
"I still don't think you should go into the Black library," Harry interrupted, tired of that argument. "It could still be dangerous, and I haven't had the time to look into the wards yet. Those are Black wards, I wouldn't be surprised if there was some protection to only allow Blacks to interact with them or enter the library; maybe that's why you couldn't enter. I for one don't want a repeat, Hermione. The next time, something worse might happen. If those wards only allow Blacks..."
"Blacks and you, apparently," Hermione replied with a crooked smile, equally aware they had talked about it enough times in the past.
"I think being the Head of House makes me one of them. If it worked for the contract..."
"Doesn't matter, we'll be done with this soon anyway," she said, ending the conversation. "So what did you want? I doubt you came all the way down here to us common folk just to ask about my reading?"
"Common folk, ha." He smiled. "Right to the point then. Well, I thought we could talk about my... our plans. The plans for..."
"I should have known. Well, fine. I haven't found something to use, but I also didn't have that much time to think about it, to be honest. Ron, he... Well, I helped him with some of his spellwork. The redirecting shield, you know?"
"Yes, I understand. How is he doing?"
"It could be worse," Hermione replied with a shrug. "He does apply himself."
"Well," Harry mused, "Maybe we could have more lessons together. Should make it easier for him, you'd profit as well..."
"Ah, no, that won't be necessary, Harry," she interrupted. "It's sweet of you, but I know what is important. You need to prepare for your fight with Riddle; everything else is a mere sideshow. We'll just have to watch your back, after all, and deal with the stray Death Eaters. We'll deal with it, you'll see. But to answer your question, I haven't found anything useful. Well, you could of course don a mask and hunt them down or something, but I doubt it'd be that easy. To catch them on the streets..."
"Yes, I know. There's little that actually scares them after coming face to face with their master," Harry told her with a chuckle. "I'm not that frightening, am I?"
"Shout at them, you are mighty threatening when you are angry," she advised.
"I doubt that would work," Harry sighed. "They'd laugh, most likely. Let's face it, they'd call their master, but not flee in terror from me. I'm not scary in the least." He shook his head, frowning playfully. "Greengrass thinks so, at least."
"You spoke with her about this?" Hermione asked with a raised eyebrow.
"I did, in a way. I ran into her on my way to the kitchen and we got to talking. She said... well, she thinks they'd never fear me. 'One look at you,' she said, but we weren't sure about the rest. What do you think the Death Eaters would do if they ran into me?"
"Call their master, no doubt about that," Hermione agreed with his earlier statement. "He likely ordered them to leave you in peace or at most restrain you, so you are safe from them. He wouldn't want anyone finishing you off in his place. But who knows, maybe he will change his mind once you make enough problems for them. The Death Eaters won't harm you, though, assuming they know it's you."
"Yeah, those were my thoughts too. He's obsessed with me, so... And well, getting recognized is the last I want. On the other hand, if they don't know who I am..." Harry broke off, blinking as he stopped in the middle of a dismissive wave.
"Harry?"
"Heh. I think I had an epiphany," he said with a shake of his head, smiling slightly. "Greengrass was right, once they'd see me, they'd no longer fear me. So they shouldn't see me at all. Assassinations from the shadows, ideally without any trace for them to follow, yet still clearly assassinations instead of a natural death. Impossible attacks, mysterious for them since they can't figure out just how I do it. One moment they're eating lunch with their friends, the next, they die. By the hands of not a single person, but a faceless menace of unknown power. One wizard, that's something they know. But if they have no idea what they are faced with or how it's done..."
"Ignoring the grim nature of the topic, it's easier said than done, Harry. Let's focus on the how for now; I've not heard of many spells or poisons that don't leave some kind of evidence. Those that do are obvious because they don't leave evidence in the first place, and I'm not really familiar with Muggle methods of assassinations – ignoring for a second that those also leave evidence behind, of course. Even those would not be impossible to pull off, though, so the Death Eaters might still find something to work with."
"Unless I remove or destroy all evidence," Harry pointed out.
"You do realize you'd very likely forget something," Hermione told him. "And I'm not sure just how you'd find the time to take care of the evidence with potential witnesses around. The cloak?"
"Invisibility, but sadly not intangibility. We can always think about that later. But what do you think about the general idea? All this time I thought like Tom would have, sending shivers down their back whenever they thought of me as a person, but if I work from the shadows, if they don't even know who is behind it or how many we are..."
"A shadow in the dark, striking fear into the hearts of evil-doers up and down the country? It might work, but we still don't know how you'd do it or where and when, never-mind getting away afterwards if you can't apparate away from wherever."
"I'm aware of that. One problem at a time, maybe? Let's see. How to kill someone? There are bullets, knifes..."
"Poisons, bombs, strangulation and drowning, yes, we've already talked about the many ways to kill, but all those leave evidence and aren't really that mysterious to begin with; we both know that. Wizard or not, even they would figure it out. We don't know enough about the methods of Muggles to leave no evidence, and magical means will be something the Death Eaters might already be familiar with. Either way, they'd not only know it was murder, but also how it was done. We might give them ideas if we're not careful. Normally, I'd advice bringing in a sharpshooter, but I doubt we'd find one who can work in the wizarding world. And say what you will, but bullets are also evidence."
"And Tom grew up in the Muggle world," Harry mused. "He may have hated it, but he also learned about guns and the like. His followers might not understand it, but Riddle does. A bomb maybe?"
"Do you know how to build one?" Hermione asked, raising an eyebrow. "To build one and not blow yourself up?"
Harry chuckled. "Petunia must've forgotten to teach me that. All right, no bomb. Magic then. Or poisons? Not impossible, there's a whole branch of undetectable ones pretty much every sixth-year heard about."
"True," Hermione replied, "but undetectable or not, poison is not exactly the right way to do it, I think. What if you miss the target and get some innocent? And poison is said to be the weapon of cowards because it's easy. Also, from what I gathered, you don't want easy, you want impressive to get the message across. Lastly, they are called undetectable poisons because they cannot be detected before their use. Afterwards, there are enough tell-tale signs to clue in anyone with expertise in these matters on what was used."
"True. Still, let's keep it as an option, all right?" He sat down, scratching his head. "Let's focus on something else for now."
"How to get away? Because that's my biggest concern right now," Hermione said.
"Fine, let's go with that. How to get away without getting caught." Pausing, he chuckled humourlessly. "I'm an idiot, you know that? All this time I tried thinking like Tom, but that's not what we need. I shouldn't be seen or caught, so we need cunning and secrecy right now, don't we?"
"Which is ironically what he boasts he excels in," Hermione said, smiling slightly.
"I think it's time I listened to Harry's intuition in this matter," he spoke with an important nod. "It's time to think shrewdly. We're magicals, so why not do the impossible? If magicals can turn back the time, what could be impossible with the right trick up my sleeve?"
It was night. Hermione and Ron had retreated to their rooms early, claiming the intention to read up on some obscure magic and work on casting speed, respectively. Greengrass had likely put in some hours in her room. Harry on the other hand had fallen asleep almost the moment he had fallen on his bed shortly after dinner.
It had been restful for once, dreamless maybe due to fatigue for the first hours. But then it had changed – a wild storm of images began. Raised voices shouting something, but muted by something in the dark. Shadowy figures moving in the mist around him, someone's touch on his head, a stinging pain. A wild parade of bodies, most horribly disfigured – an older man missing most of his head, yet still moved by magic; a crouched woman, madness in her eyes as she munched on what appeared to be a twig. A boy no older than eight carrying the smashed head of a dog. A nurse he knew from somewhere sparing him a smile as she prepared the inoculation while a line of boys waited nervously. An adult with a slender, expressionless face with a long knife stuck in his neck. The smell of flowers and sweet pies and flowers was in the air while laughter sounded from somewhere. A young man, gasping for a moment before his face lost all expression and his eyes lost focus. A swish of the wand; the skin fell off – three seconds for adults. The rush of joy as realization set in and the terror showed on the young mother's face. A girl of maybe twelve, her flesh and cheap, synthetic clothes grotesquely fused by what Harry remembered as fire, leaving a trail of blood from the stump that had once been an arm.
With a jolt, Harry awoke, but for once not because someone had woken him. He had remembered something important, yet he couldn't recall it. Something had shocked him awake, something had sparked in his mind; he had had a revelation, but didn't know what it had been. There had been something important, something he shouldn't have forgotten.
He felt too awake to fall asleep again, not until he had found his answer, he decided. What did a bit of sleep matter? Why should he care about that when he might have stumbled upon something important. Maybe it had been some of Tom's secrets, something Harry hadn't noticed when he had looked through the memories.
He began pacing his room. No, it hadn't been something of Tom, and then, it had been. There had been something, something he should have remembered. Knowing his mind, he had solved some problem without realizing it. Chaotic minds tended to work in strange ways, and his had been an almost perfect example of one before the merge; now it was in an even greater disorder. The dream had given him some inspiration, Harry was sure about that, but the details were drifting away, and in the confusion they left behind, he couldn't make the connection he was searching for.
"Anything of importance?" he asked the painting of a wary looking witch who had walked into her frame, narrowing his eyes.
"No, everything is quiet," she informed him. "They are still standing around."
"Well, return to your post," Harry ordered. "And if they do move..."
"But it's raining outside!" she protested.
"You're a painting," he told her, keeping from snapping at the painting. "You don't freeze or get sick, and unless I'm much mistaken, you are also protected from the weather. I need someone to keep an eye on their movement..."
"But they don't move!" she pointed out.
"Which is why we have to be alarmed once they do," he gave back. "That is the idea behind watching our guards."
With a nasty glare in his direction, she left.
"You shouldn't have done that," came another voice from the door. Harry whirled around to see Greengrass standing there. "Painting or not, giving her a job against her will won't make her more willing to do her job, will it?"
"An important job," Harry replied, raising his eyebrow in challenge.
"For the living, yes. But she is a painting. They don't really have a sense of self, do they?" Blinking, she added, "Good question actually. Do they? Well, in any case, she is a painting. She wasn't meant to be use that way." Greengrass looked around the room. "Although I do have to congratulate on thinking of that."
"Thanks, but not my idea. It was Hermione's," Harry gave back.
"I should have known." And she looked as if she meant it.
"Why are you here?" Harry asked her, changing subject to more important matters. "Not that I want to chase you away, but..."
"I know, Potter, I know." After a moment of hesitation, she continued with a small sigh. "Well, I came to talk to you about an idea I had. You want to send the Death Eaters a message and let them know someone is out for their blood. I want revenge. Why not combine our goals? It doesn't matter to you whose blood it is, after all, and at least I'd get that out of the way. You could leave a message. 'The first one's a warning, the next time, I won't be so lenient,' or something like that."
Harry looked at her for a long time. He could see her determination. Maybe she thought she was ready. Yet there was also something else – a hint of impatience. "Why are you coming to me with this all of a sudden?" he asked, trying to delay the decision for the time being. "In the middle of the night?"
"You know I want my revenge on Malfoy; we both know he's a Death Eater. A good target, then, and it needs to be done some time. I'll hide until everything is over and you can fight your war without having to worry about my goals."
It sounded like a simple solution, but Harry knew better than to trust those. "It's not a good idea, I think. For one, if we'd do it that way, everyone would know you were behind the attack since I assume you want him to know it was you. It's a lot harder to get both of us close enough, and I'd want to be there, so our alliance would become known as well; more information I don't want getting out to avoid retaliation from Malfoy's friends. Also, you are presumed to be dead – that's a misconception we shouldn't correct so soon as it might come in handy at some point. Furthermore, I'm guessing you want him to know why it happened and who it was who came for revenge. As for my attacks, we need a certain mystery to keep them in line, I think. I want to operate from the shadows and strike fear in the hearts of villains and mere crooks alike. They shouldn't know who's behind it." He frowned. "Why this sudden impulse to go after Malfoy now? What brought this on?" Harry watched her carefully, but when she didn't reply, he decided to take it a step further. "During your speech in the kitchen, you said that you are here, siding with me, because Malfoy feared you might."
"So what if I am?" Greengrass replied, raising an eyebrow. "What does it matter now?"
"That is why he attacked you?" Harry asked, prodding once more. "He attacked you because he feared you might side with me? That's the whole reason for his attack on another student? No secret business or animosity between you two I'm unaware of?"
She frowned, likely worrying about the best phrasing. "Something like that, yes," she admitted, keeping her face a mask. "He wanted to know where you were. I couldn't answer him, obviously. Things escalated, and we got into our fight."
Harry sighed. "I feared as much. You got hurt because he couldn't get to me."
"Because he wanted to know something I couldn't tell him," Greengrass corrected, yet guessing from her expression she knew he knew it hadn't been the truth. After a moment of hesitation, she added, "He blames you for everything. I think it might have..." she drifted off, unsure of how to put it.
"It's his nature, I guess," Harry mused. "He wants something, and when he can't get it... yes, it makes sense. He's venting his anger. If that's the case, I might need your help, Greengrass. It's about your friends; I want to send them a message, ideally one they would believe. Since Malfoy can't harm you right now... They are targets within his reach, unlike you. He might try to vent his anger at them. He did it with you because he couldn't get me, and we're only married."
She blinked, her face masklike. "That we are."
"Maybe I'll have to ask Snape to pass something along," Harry mused. "But better not, I think. Headmasters don't interact that much with students, I think. Or do they? Hmm. Maybe... maybe by proxy, then? Do you know whether any of your friends has contact with anyone outside of your little circle? Someone who could talk to them for a bit without it being a dead give-away?"
"I... Millicent got into contact with Longbottom," Greengrass pointed out. "Tracey is rather open, I guess, but I'm not sure whether she's on speaking terms with anyone you'd trust with a message. I don't know who's in your little rebel group, do I? For all I know, you could have half of the store owners of Hogsmeade on your side and doing errands for you."
"Bulstrode, huh?" Harry scratched his chin. "She does seem to know how to avoid attention, which might be a good thing."
"She kept the secret about the contract," Greengrass pointed out. "If you trust Longbottom enough to let him do your errands, that might be the way to go."
"I'd have to get into contact with Neville though," Harry laughed, trying to appear as if he had no idea of how to do that. In truth, he doubted they could send a message that long with the coins in the first place – ignoring, of course, that some of the coins were unaccounted for, which made it less safe than he liked. "Well, maybe we could have a letter handed over that way. No, wait, no letter. But something so they'd believe us. Or a coded letter? Do they know any codes?"
"So you don't think I should get involved in your plan?" Greengrass asked, trying to come back to her original reason for coming. "You think we shouldn't combine our goals and work together?"
"No, I don't think so. Ignoring for a moment that combining our goals would force us to depend on each other – if one fails, the other is brought down as well – you would be up against a Malfoy who has joined the Death Eaters, he will probably have private lessons with his dear father and aunt. I also doubt he'd fight fair, that's not a trait of Malfoy's. And just for the record, it's also not wise to fight fair in a combat in general – but then, you are a Slytherin; you knew that already, I guess. Cheating's part of the secret to success – although it's not much of a secret in the first place. Anyway, I'm not sure whether you're ready to face him down yet with barely a month of training under your belt. And lastly, I'm not sure you're ready to kill him."
"I don't want to kill him, though," Greengrass pointed out. "Maim him, hurt him, yes, but I want to give him a lesson he won't forget and let him live with it. You seemed to have known that already."
"I did guess as much, yes," Harry told her. "But who knows how things will turn out? If you have reservations, Malfoy might take advantage of that. All it takes is only moment of hesitation and he might just gain the upper hand."
She sighed, but didn't object. "Well, anyway, that's all I had to ask," Greengrass told him and left with a quick nod.
Harry watched her leave, thinking about what he had learned from her. So Malfoy had really attacked her because he suspected she might have information for him? Was the blond boy really so blinded by his desires that he couldn't see past his own preconceptions? Had Malfoy created his own enemy much like Voldemort before him?
A part of Harry felt he should be thankful to Malfoy. Without his intervention, Greengrass would still be at Hogwarts, learning the twisted truths Voldemort wished his followers to teach the next generation. Instead, he had another fighter, even if she only wanted revenge against one idiot. And Harry had also managed to get her to open up a little more. He was starting to get an idea about Greengrass, something he considered to be good for the next months. She would be his wife for the next seven years, after all; having the same enemies was at least some basis for co-existence. If nothing else, they could plot their demise together.
She was already in her room and throwing back the covers when a strange thought came to her. Why had Potter been up in the first place? Although it wasn't really urgent, and she hadn't planned for the talk, Daphne still turned on her heel. It was a matter of principle and irrespective of importance. Or maybe she wanted to feel less like she had lost that round between them. Maybe she merely wanted something from him, something so she could point at it and say she had learned something valuable about him as well instead of just giving.
She passed the empty painting of Phineas Nigellus Black, wondering where he might have gotten to. But it didn't matter to her. Why should she care for an unpleasant imitation of a man long dead? She entered the room, finding Potter just like she had left him. He stared at a mirror on the wall. Or was it a portable window? It seemed too dark for a reflection of the room, at least.
"Back again?" he greeted her.
Daphne resisted the urge to lick her lips nervously. "Well, I was just wondering why you were awake. We run into each other a lot at night, but mostly downstairs. Yet tonight, I found you wide awake in your room. Granted, I hadn't looked forward to being blasted across the room once more, so I was glad I didn't have to wake you up, but it still made me wonder. Don't you sleep? At night, I mean. I know you nap occasionally, but during the day and..." She hesitated. It sounded wrong and far too interested in him. "And I wondered, that is all."
He looked at her for a short moment, but she had to force herself to not turn her head away. She hadn't noticed before just how powerful his eyes were. Even from the distance, there was some power in them. Cat's eyes shone in the dark, didn't they? Did a lion's eyes as well? She couldn't allow herself to show weakness, but she also didn't like being looked at by him like that. It had been a quick glance, but a thoughtful one. She didn't like him thinking about her question. What kind of conclusions would he draw from it?
"I do sleep occasionally. Tonight, I needed to think; that is why I was up." He had spoken softly, reminiscing about something from the look of him.
"You should get regular sleep, though," Daphne found herself saying, wondering secretly why she told him that. True, she had decided to get involved in his business, but she hadn't meant giving him useless advice.
"Are you that concerned for me?" His tone was light, carefree even, but she couldn't shake the feeling there had been something else hidden underneath. Or maybe she was really just projecting her own mood on him? No, there was a glint in his eye. Amusement? A warning?
Daphne chose to wave him off. "Not really. I merely meant you should try to get regular sleep or you will trip during one of your outings and break your neck or something. And wouldn't that be a shame? Just think of the Dark Lord, he wants to kill you himself so much, and you trip and die in an accident without giving him a chance. You don't want to deprive him of his prize and success, do you?"
"He had his chances to kill me, more than enough," Potter laughed. "And I do try to deprive him of as many successes as I can. It's part of the game we play."
"Or tell your friends, they might be able to help you," Daphne added more seriously. "Sleep, I mean, not trip and break your neck, although they might do that as well if you asked them nicely."
"They know. There is little they can do, though," he told her. His humour was suddenly gone. "Nonetheless, thank you for the suggestion, Greengrass."
"Think nothing of it, Potter," she replied, startled by his behaviour. She had expected him to hide or maybe joke about it, perhaps deny it altogether or act as if he didn't know what she meant. It made things a lot easier, she guessed, but she was also unsure of how to deal with it.
He frowned, pursing his lips. "It's weird to be called by you like that, it's so impersonal. 'Greengrass.' 'Potter.'"
"We aren't friends, you know? Just married?" she reminded him.
"True, true," he chuckled. "Still, we see each other daily. Have for a month already, technically. If everything works out according to our plans and hopes – and by that I mean you deal with Malfoy and I survive this war –, we might continue to see a lot of each other for a while. We might have to live being married to each other until the contract ended."
"That doesn't make us friends, only tied to each other," she pointed out. Yet before he could interrupt, she continued, "But if it bothers you that much, I might call you by your given name from time to time."
With a small smile, he said, "For a price, I'm guessing?"
"Tempting," Daphne replied, mirroring his smile.
"And what, pray tell, might you want in exchange?" Potter asked her with a quirked eyebrow.
"Oh, I want endless riches, my old life back, happiness, a future, the contract dealt with and in the past, and power to do what I want to... but I doubt you can offer me any of those things." She also remembered his earlier comment about sending a warning to her friends, which might count as payment, but didn't voice that thought. "It doesn't matter. Consider it a late birthday present. I'll occasionally call you by your given name. I'll even let you do the same since I'm in a good mood."
He blinked in surprise. "That's your good mood?"
Daphne rolled her eyes. "Was there any doubt about that?"
Either he was teasing her or he really hadn't noticed the relatively relaxed atmosphere between them. A small part of her was alarmed by it, but on the other hand it also didn't matter that much, did it? No one would ever learn about it, and although she wasn't quite ready to accept it, apart from the elf, Potter was still the closest she had as someone to talk to as well as someone she was starting to understand better.
"It's hard to tell with you, to be honest," he replied, "but it's good to know. So that's why I haven't seen you in a good mood before now, then? You're only nice at," he glanced at the clock on his night-stand, "twenty to one?"
She raised her eyebrow. "Careful there, Potter. I'm often nice, just not to you. We're not friends, are we?"
He chuckled, but not for long. Instead a frown appeared on his face as he sent her a hesitant glance. "Daphne..."
"Now, don't be hasty," she warned him jokingly. "I'll let you call me that occasionally, but not always."
Except for a small smile, he didn't react. "Why are you awake at this time?"
And just like that, she became defensive again. Daphne crossed her arms again and sent him a glare. "Nothing to worry about for you."
He sighed, rubbing his temple tiredly. "You brought it up earlier, came back in here even to ask me about my sleeping habits. We do meet each other a lot at night, you said so yourself, so I think I'm allowed to be... curious as well. Don't you sleep? At night, I mean."
She would have liked to curse loudly or purse her lips in anger, but she had to agree he had a point. She had brought up the topic of sleep in the first place, returning the question did seem like a reasonable and acceptable action. She didn't know what bothered her more, his interest or her thoughtlessness. She should have stayed in her room. What had she achieved by her return to ask him? He had come out on top in the talk. Again. Why couldn't she have continued the way she had before? Why did she have to get involved in the mess?
"I'm just awake right now," she told him, looking to the side. "Does it matter to you?"
Potter's frown deepened. "Not really. But after you made me aware of it, I realized you were right. We do meet quite often at night. In fact, you seem to seek me out more often than not, instead of keeping your distance like you do during the day. I told you why I am up and about from time to time, so what about you? If it's Ron's grunts and growls at night, I know that. I'm sure we can soundproof your room or something like that."
"I sleep at night. I had merely wanted to ask you something tonight. That was why I came here in the first place, remember?" She shook her head, trying to look unconcerned.
Silence settled while she looked around the room, deliberately avoiding his eye, yet also not leaving. The last she needed was to have him think she was fleeing the situation, which was the reason she found herself stuck in the room.
"You have some interesting trinkets around here," she told him, gesturing vaguely at a faraway corner. "I'm guessing those are security measures?"
"They are," Potter admitted, but didn't elaborate. After a moment of quiet, he spoke again, his voice soft. "If at some time you want to talk..." he began, but she interrupted him with a laugh.
"What, you?"
"You advised me to talk with my friends. Yours aren't around right now, unfortunately. Since you don't like Ron or Hermione..."
"That still doesn't mean I'd talk to you," Daphne told him, rolling her eyes. "And there isn't anything to talk about anyway, least of all with you."
Once more he sighed. "I guessed as much. I just wanted to offer it just in case. If you find you do want to talk..."
"What's this about?" she interrupted, her anger and fear rising. "What do you get out of this? What do you want from me? Why are you so interested in what I am doing or thinking or saying?"
He leaned against the wall, a sad look on his face. "You worried about my sleeping pattern..."
"I didn't!" she protested. She hadn't been worried about him at all, she decided. "I was merely curious."
Whether he believed her or not, he continued as if she hadn't spoken at all. "... and I feel responsible for your predicament..."
"I can look out for myself, I don't need you. I'm not helpless," she defended. "You're reading far to much into the situation."
"I just wanted to offer my help; you know where to find me," he said, spreading his arms slightly in what he probably considered a calming gesture.
"And I don't need it," she declared, head held high defiantly. She felt the blood rush through her body and could hear it in her ears, but ignored it. She needed her composure back, but as long as she was in his presence, she couldn't focus on calming down.
They were silent again, yet this time, it was a tense silence, only broken by the sound of their breaths. Meanwhile, he watched her carefully, likely waiting for some kind of sign. He was judging her as well, she knew it – perhaps, she realized, because they had switched places. He wanted to offer his help like she had tried to earlier – ignoring for a moment that she didn't need anyone's help in the first place. If so, had he also recognized part of himself in her in a flip of the situation from the last talk in the drawing room?
"For a time," he said, looking at something in the distance, "I dreamed of the evening of the Third Task."
Daphne blinked, surprised by his admission, but kept silent. She could have interrupted him, of course, but she was happy to let him speak, lest she lost control of herself once more and spoke against better judgement. If he wanted to open up, if he wanted to share who was she to stop him? Hadn't that been what she had wanted? To learn what was hidden in him, maybe offer some small help, and then to walk away with a clear conscience after having attempted to help without having to return the favour and letting him pry into her business?
"The memories were too fresh," Potter said, narrowing his eyes slightly, "and looking back, I hadn't dealt with it properly." He paused, staring somewhere to the side. "Again and again I saw that evening. Unable to do anything, I had to watch Cedric die. It haunted me, so to speak. How do you block the images out of your mind? I didn't know how to deal with them. I never told anyone about those restless nights, not my friends or anyone else. They knew, though. You've shared a dorm as well, you know there are very few secrets.
"Hermione tried to talk to me about it, but I brushed her off. When she tried to pry into the matter, I became angry – angry just like you seem to be." He turned to her. "My anger and fears kept me from talking with others until I had dealt with it on my own. I think it would have helped me to talk about it with someone and get it out of..." He blinked, shaking his head shortly. "No, to sort it out. You said the same, that talking might help. Until you are reunited with your friends, if you want to talk about something, I'm willing to listen."
Unsure of what to do, not really thinking about it, she looked at him and felt drawn to his eyes. She had a feeling she knew what he had meant, and she had a feeling he knew what he was talking about. She didn't find ridicule or contempt, but sadness in his eyes. So he did know. She should have known. For a moment, she saw a pale child staring back with wide eyes, but the image was gone almost at once. Daphne's hand twitched, but she stopped it before she knew what would have happened. Would she have reached out to Potter?
Her control regained, she pushed the thought out of her mind and focused on the topic at hand. She opened her mouth, ready to scoff at his childish hopefulness. Did he really think she would change her mind?
But she didn't say that, instead, another question came over her lips. "So you have left that part of your life behind?" Stupid, she scolded herself for that very same childish hope she had wanted to mock.
"It has been a while since I last dreamed of that night," he said. "I came to terms with it and gained perspective. It's still there, but not with the same weight on my shoulders. I doubt it's something I can ever truly leave behind." He sighed, giving her a sad smile. "It's our experiences and memories that form who we are. Don't you think so?"
Daphne swallowed the lump in her throat. She hadn't expected such a candid talk when she had returned to his room. He had claimed he had left the nightmares behind and had outgrown the haunting shadows of the past. She didn't believe him, but it had sounded honest. And she could relate to his views on personal growth. Didn't she think so too, that the past formed who someone was? Wasn't that one reason why she hated losing her memories?
"That sounds surprisingly mature," she told him half-heartedly, avoiding his eyes once more.
"Thank you," he told her with a sad smile that hinted at some secret she couldn't see.
The silence stretched until Daphne couldn't contain it any longer.
"So, you think I have some problem?" She was happy to note the laughter in her voice. It didn't even sound forced, which she found both surprising and calming.
"I don't know what to think. You try to keep me away from your life and hopes, dreams and fears. You insist on your privacy, making me think there might be something you need rather than want to protect. You get angry when I return your question – much the same as I became angry when Hermione tried to talk to me, which makes me think there might be a story there as well. But other than that, how could I guess as to what keeps you up at night?"
"I like the nightly hours of darkness," she said, giving the half-truth as casually as she could.
"I did notice your defensive behaviour, though."
Deciding on a new plan, she sighed. "Well, I wouldn't call it a problem. So I don't sleep too well at night and wake up occasionally. It's not really any trouble, is it?"
"I guess not," he spoke, shifting his weight a little, but he didn't seem convinced.
"What more do you want, Potter? I admitted I don't sleep that well right now, that's what you wanted to hear, right?"
He pursed his lips slightly. "I'd prefer the truth, actually. It took me weeks to come to terms with Cedric's death, there is no shame or weakness in..."
"Thank you for worrying," she interrupted, "but it's unnecessary." His frown told her he didn't believe her. She tried to distract him for the time being. "Well, if you really want to help," she began, "you could teach me wandless magic. That might prove useful." She tilted her head, pouting and fluttering her eyelashes.
"I think so too, but it's not as easy as it sounds," he told her, shaking his head. "It's not a skill that can be taught just like that, more like a talent – either you have it or you don't. It has a lot to do with self-discovery."
"Yet you managed just fine," she pointed out. "How hard can it be, then?"
"You'd be surprised," he spoke, chuckling softly. "And I have other things to do than teach you something I might need as a secret weapon later. I wish you luck for your revenge, Daphne, I really do. But I'd sacrifice it for the chance to end the war once and for all. Granted, I might have to sacrifice a lot more than that to end the war. Giving up a secret weapon just because you asked nicely? Not smart. Having something like that up my sleeve? Very smart."
"And devious. Well, fine, so no wandless magic," she grumbled.
"I already said fighting fair is not wise in this war. No, I don't plan to teach wandless magic, and you'd be at the bottom of the list right now. Whether you like it or not, until I know I can trust you with it, you are a security risk for us. So, no wandless magic for you, young lady. Not right now, at least," he amended. "Perhaps later, once I'll have some time – after the war. It's not that essential of a skill anyway; as long as you know how to protect yourself, you'll be fine."
She nodded slowly, seeing some truth in his words. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him frown. "So, later maybe," she gave in. "How about... oh, I know, how about some spells? There has to be something brilliant in that head of yours; someone surely taught you something good. And you did try butting into my training before."
"And why would I give up something so valuable like secret spells?" he asked "That'd lead to the same problem right now, even if it is significantly easier to teach a spell or two. I had thought more along the line of pointers then, not full-blown spells."
"Well, it was worth a try," she said with a shrug.
He laughed softly, an altogether not unlikeable sound, pleasantly devoid of pity. It seemed he didn't think about her emotional state anymore, a fact she was happy about, and his mood had improved as well.
"So, you wandered around this evening, then, trying to think of something," Daphne spoke up, switching the focus back to him. "Any bright ideas?"
"Sadly, no. I had a dream, something came to me, but I couldn't remember once I was awake. I'm still trying to figure out how I can do that warning to the Death Eaters. You were right; once they'd see me, they'd do everything but fear me. No, they shouldn't see me at all and instead fear a mysterious attacker. Fear of the unknown. That was why working together like you wanted to earlier wouldn't really work, remember?"
"So you have to do it unseen. An unseen, yet impressive murder. Tricky, but not impossible with the right tools."
"Oh, it's more than that, actually. I cannot be seen, heard, smelled or felt around the scene of crime, yet still show them I can take away their safety whenever and wherever I want to. They might not fear brute strength, but they might fear what they can't fight or escape from."
"Felt?" Daphne asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Well, you never know," he said with a shrug. "Even if I were invisible, someone might still notice my presence in the room. Invisible or not, I would still be there. Someone might run into me, and since I can't vanish into thin air... It's as if..." he slowed down, narrowing his eyes. Silently, he moved his hands, gesturing something in the air only he could see – as if he were grabbing something small or pinching something, maybe squashing a fly between his fingers.
Daphne watched him think. It was a strange sight to be sure, not only seeing him truly think, but figuring something out he deemed so important as he watched his hand in trance. A multitude of emotions flashed over his face, before he began to grin, faint at first.
"Seems like you had your idea," she told him matter-of-factly.
"You could say that," Harry spoke up, laughing. "It needs a bit of testing, but other than that... You could say that."
"Well, glad to be of service, Potter," she replied. "Granger will be delighted. Now if you'll excuse me?" She turned and headed for the door once more, ready to get a few hours of sleep, ideally, in the bed she had already prepared just like her mother had taught her, just how the bed of a proper pureblood should look. It made her think of her old bedroom at Greengrass Manor and the memories connected to it.
A hand came to rest on her shoulder. She jumped at the sudden contact, whirling around. Her eyes scanned her surroundings nervously, looking for the threat, but only finding Potter at an arm's length. All laughter and happiness on his face was gone and replaced by worry.
He pulled his hand back, frowning deeply. It was as if he could see deeper than before, saw her soul and self laid bare for him just like she had been able to with him days ago. Their places had switched, she realized, with him noticing what she tried to bury within her.
"Sorry, I..." he broke off, likely because he had noticed the apprehension in his own tone as well.
"It's fine," she told him, forcing a strength in her own voice she didn't feel.
"Daphne..." he began, a gentleness sounding through she hated more than the suspicion.
"You just surprised me, is all," she defended. "Don't sneak up on me, all right?"
He looked as if he wanted to protest, but kept his mouth shut.
"Well, glad we've cleared that up," she told him, cursing herself both for her reaction to the sudden touch and her harsh tone. The suspicion rose in him, and she felt her fear and anger bubbling. She forced both down.
"You're jumpy," he told her. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to scare you."
"Look, you just startled me," she said with a forced calm. "Don't do it again and we might get along perfectly fine. Oh, and keeping your paws to yourself might also be a good idea." She chuckled, lifting her hands. "Paws? Because, you know, Gryffindor? Lion?"
He sighed, leaning back on his heels. Great, just when she had been about to leave, she had to make him suspicious again. "I remember a small boy," Potter began in a soft voice, a calculating look in his eyes.
"Story time again?" Daphne asked, sighing.
"Indeed," he replied, keeping his eyes on her to look for something. "They never said anything about his home life, not where he came from or who his parents had been. He didn't look any different from anyone else, but he had trouble fitting in. Day after day he withdrew more and more, kept his eyes to the ground. In the first week, he lashed out at an older girl who had wanted to ask him something. After that, people left him alone, for the most part. Most didn't notice – Mrs. Cole didn't. You remind me of him in a small way."
"What, nobody wanted to play with you when you were young?" she laughed despite the lingering nervousness. "And now you torment people with your sob story?"
"He was jumpy as well," Potter continued as if he hadn't heard her. "He lashed out at everyone who tried to get to know him and scared those away who wanted to. Even small gestures of kindness could set him off. He didn't like surprises, and he disliked any form of physical contact – any kind of touch could set him off. Some children made it a game for a while to goad him, to try and touch him and see when he would snap eventually, but there wasn't much of a challenge there. It never took long."
"I get it, he was easily scared," Daphne told him, but she couldn't shake off an uneasy feeling. She had a shrewd idea about the boy Potter was talking about and she didn't like it one bit. It was just a bit too familiar.
"He drifted off, changed over the days he was there and became withdrawn from the world. He listened to the voice, a voice of understanding and guidance. He paid attention to it, but still no one worried about his peculiar behaviour. They had other matters to take care of. It was just that time, you know? Too much to do to care for all the children, and everyone too busy with themselves to notice the changes in a small boy or his wish to escape the crowded house. What did one small boy's well-being matter if it meant sacrificing those of other children? Of course, there aren't that many places to go to in a city, but boys find ways. He did as well – roofs and the banks. And at night, the sky looked beautiful. Even the river looked nice, alight with thousands of stars reflected in it, and it calmed the boy down."
"So he liked star-gazing. Some people like being left alone," Daphne tried, but she knew what Potter was talking about, and his story told her he had picked up on the little signs she couldn't hide. It told her he knew she would be able to relate to the boy's feelings.
"I don't know what or who you were jumping away from..." Potter told her with a meaningful glance, first to her face, then to her shoulder.
"What, now I'm scared of people?" she laughed. "That I shy away from contact? Hardly; Jean could tell you as much. You just startled me! It's as simple as that. It's a dim room in a gloomy house full of secrets and dangers, tiredness getting to me, and someone touching me out of nowhere – there's no big secret there," she defended, mentally chiding herself for not pointing it out sooner. She crossed her arms, fighting off the cold of knowing a desperate lie when she told one.
After a moment of hesitation, he continued. "The boy kept to himself, avoided people for the most part and kept to the shadows. He didn't make friends, and he stopped looking at people. One day he left, never to return, never to be found."
A definite chill ran down Daphne's back as she listened to his voice. The image of a child lost forever did strike a chord in her, and she had a feeling Potter was telling the truth. "So that's it? That's the end? 'One day he left'? Really? So he just dropped off the face of the earth?"
Potter looked off to the side, distant and lost in his memories. "He went down the river and to the sea. He never returned, and he was never found. They said he had run away. No one looked into his disappearance. It was just that time." The gleam had returned.
Daphne swallowed the lump in her throat. All the little details falling into place; she understood. She saw it, the pain and guilt she was familiar with. She couldn't stop herself from asking, "Did you know him well?"
His mouth turned into a crooked smile. "I remember the talks I had with him."
Well, no secret about what he thought of, really. He'll bake a batch of cupcakes with a pinch of poison, obviously.
